我曾在纽约州的奥西宁小镇住过，那是一个风景如画的地方，乡间小路阡陌纵横，带给我许多美好的回忆。更让我难以忘怀的是我的邻居、著名短篇小说家约翰•契弗。虽然当时已功成名就，他却毫无架子，始终平易近人，竭尽所能地给予我这个后辈点拨和帮助。多年后，当我再次路过他的故居，想起过去的点滴，内心无比温暖。

By Chris Epting

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Literature has been the salvation of the damned, literature has inspired and guided lovers, routed despair and can perhaps in this case save the world.[2] —John Cheever

In a California bookstore recently, I saw a copy of The Short Stories of John Cheever, my all-time favorite collection of short fiction. The book gave me a special feeling, deep connection to a past chapter in my life.

It was 1975 up in Westchester County, New York, in a town called Ossining. Ossining’s original name, “Sing Sing,” was named after the Native American Sinck Sinck tribe from whom the land was purchased in 1685. As you might know, Sing Sing is also the name of the famed local prison. We lived in the rural part of town, in the forest on a winding, idyllic country lane[3] called Spring Valley Road. (Other roads in the area were Hawks Lane, Apple Bee Farms Road, Cedar Lane... you get the picture.)

I was about 13 years old and had decided that I wanted to be a writer (especially if the baseball player thing didn’t work out[4]). When I announced this to my parents, my mom suggested I write a neighbor of ours to see if he might be able to supply some professional guidance. His name was John Cheever, and all I knew of him was that my parents loved his writing and several of his books were on the shelves in our living room library. My mom’s idea seemed reasonable enough so I wrote Mr. Cheever a short note asking if I might be able to ask him a few questions some day. Just a couple of days later, the following letter arrived at our house:

Dear Chris Epting:

It is nice to know that there is another writer living in the neighborhood. I will call you one day soon and then maybe we can take a walk and talk about writing.

(signed)John Cheever

And the very next day, he called my house. “Yes, Chris...” a rich New England-accented[5] voice began, “this is John Cheever.” What a unique way to be introduced to one of the greatest fiction writers in American literary history.

Armed with a few school writing samples, I went to his house the next day and spent several hours there. I listened to him, I asked questions, I watched him smoke tons of filterless cigarettes, I drank Coke and I listened to his Beatles records with him.[6] But then it was time for Little League[7] practice. But it was okay. I’d be back many other times in the next several years to talk about writing.

John Cheever became a mentor[8] to me until his death in 1982. He’d review my work, (scribbling copious notes in red felt tip marker across my pages),[9] take the occasional walk with me and once even personally called a professor at my college to recommend me for a much-in-demand writing course. Naturally the call helped secure my place in the class (it had been his idea to call after I described the situation) and it wasn’t until later in life that I could appreciate the absurdity of the moment: a pompous college English professor with his own dreams of becoming a great American novelist getting a call from one of the true Lions of American fiction to vouch for student.[10]

John Cheever lived in Ossining from 1951 until the time of his death. Over the years, he became iconic[11] in the city. He taught at Sing Sing prison, was part of a regular salon[12]-style dinner group for years and even did readings at the local public library. Cheever was such a regular at the Highland Diner that his photo hung there, shrine-like for years after his death.[13] He was everywhere, and he was nowhere; seen all over town but just as happy in his beautiful colonial[14] home on Cedar Lane with his lovely wife Mary.

Once I’d known him for a couple of years, it finally hit[15] me who he was—and what he represented to people. I was in the supermarket with my mom and at the checkout stand, there was that elegant, weathered face,[16] on the cover of Newsweek magazine (after he’d won the Pulitzer Prize for his novel, Falconer). I was seeing Cheever later that day so I brought the copy with me. In his office, I showed it to him. He just nodded and I asked him something. I explained to him that when I first visited, I was not familiar with him. But now, over time, and especially with this magazine, it was clear to me he was very important. So I wanted to know: why grant me, a kid in the neighborhood, all of this precious time?

He laughed a little at that and explained that since his drinking problems in the last few years, he had looked for therapeutic outlets that might help him focus[17] —and that helping a young writer was almost like medicine. (I learned later that he was completely dry[18] the last seven years of his life—and those were the years I knew him). In addition to visiting at his home, I called him from college to chat from time to time. I’d bump into[19] him taking long walks down Spring Valley Road on lazy summer days (or riding his beloved bicycle) and he’d always stop to talk.

I spoke to John Cheever less than two weeks before he died. I was away at school and while I knew he was ill with cancer, I didn’t know just how sick he was. There was an article I wanted to write about him and on the phone, in a ravaged[20] voice, he told me as soon as he was feeling better we could talk more about it. Then I turned on the news one morning soon after and saw he was gone.

If you ever get the chance to visit Ossining, wherever you are in the village, know that he was probably right nearby at some point. If you make your way to the serene Teatown Lake near his home, be aware that he paused there along the road by the water more than once to sit by the rocks and talk to this young writer about craft and critique, while also mixing in a fair amount of baseball chatter.[21] Further on down the woodsy road, at the Teatown Lake Reservation,[22] the ancient stone walls where Cheever would stop and rest are still there and everything remains as it was when he was here—exactly as I remember it as a teenager.

There’s still a diner at 191 N. Highland Avenue where Cheever could frequently be found. As the local library recounts[23]:

Cheever was a regular at the Highland Diner where he’d arrive with a book or newspaper and look around for someone to talk to... He knew and was liked by so many people in the town that his family used to call him the ‘Mayor of Ossining.’ He never ran for office, of course, but there was an abortive[24] movement in the wake of the Pulitzer to name a street after him. Cheever was pleased and self-deprecatory[25] about this at the same time. He and Mary and the children sat around the dinner table thinking of what else might be named after him. ‘Let’s see,’ he proposed, ‘how about the John Cheever Memorial Dump[26]?’

Recently, I drove once more past the Cheever’s house on Cedar Lane near Route 9A. Peeking down the driveway and looking at the house set back against the woods, I could picture him getting into his red Volkswagen Rabbit to drive me home after that first visit.[27] Then I thought back to what he told me at that meeting:

“Keep a journal[28], start today and don’t stop. It forces you to write and that’s good. Writers write, they don’t talk about writing and a journal strengthens the muscle. So go. Write.”

I thought to myself, how lucky I was to have known someone so gifted and inspirational, someone who took the time to share some stories and advice—someone who gave some critique and company[29] to, as he put it, “another writer living in the neighborhood.”

Vocabulary

1. John Cheever: 约翰•契弗（1912—1982），美国现代重要的小说家，一生著述丰富，尤以短篇见长，有“美国郊外契诃夫”之誉，曾凭小说《猎鹰者监狱》（Falconer）获普利策奖（Pulitzer Prize），作品常讽刺新英格兰郊区富裕的居民。

2. salvation: 拯救，救助；the damned: 受苦的人；route: vt. 按特定方向转移，此处指文学让人摆脱绝望，重燃希望。

3. on a winding, idyllic country lane: 在一条弯弯曲曲、宁静如画的乡村小路上。

4. work out: 产生结果，进行顺利。

5. New England-accented: 新英格兰（地区）口音的。

6. filterless cigarette: 无过滤型香烟，较之过滤嘴香烟，对身体危害更大；Coke: 可口可乐；Beatles: 甲壳虫（或译披头士）乐队，20世纪五六十年代风靡一时。

7. Little League: <美>（由8岁至12岁的男女少年参加的）少年棒球联合会。

8. mentor:（经验丰富且值得信赖的）导师，指导者。

9. scribble: 潦草地书写；copious: 大量的；red felt tip marker: 红色毡尖记号笔，felt 有“毡状材料”之义。

10. secure: 保证，确保；absurdity: 荒唐；pompous: 自高自大的；lion: 著名作家，文坛巨擘；vouch for: 担保，保证。

11. iconic: 标志性的。

12. salon: 沙龙，尤指作家和艺术家等在上流社会知名人士家中定期举行的社交聚会。

13. regular: 常客；diner: 小餐馆；shrine-like: 如神龛般的。

14. colonial：（尤指建筑、家具）（美国独立前）殖民地时期制造的，殖民地时期式样的。

15. hit: 突然清楚地意识到。

16. checkout stand: 收银台；weathered: 饱经风霜的。

17. therapeutic: 治疗的；outlet: 途径。

18. dry: 不再嗜酒的，戒酒的。

19. bump into: 撞见，偶然遇见。

20. ravage: 毁坏，蹂躏，此处形容契弗病得很重，说话毫无力气。

21. serene: 宁静的；craft and critique: 技巧和批评；a fair amount of: 相当多的；chatter: 喋喋不休的闲聊，形容两人聊得很欢。

22. woodsy: 绿树成荫的；reservation: 自然保护区，<美>（印第安人的）居留地。

23. recount: 叙述，说明。

24. abortive: 落空的，失败的。

25. self-deprecatory: 自我贬损的。

26. dump: 垃圾场。

27. peek: 窥视，偷看；set back against the woods: 在森林的掩映下；Volkswagen Rabbit: 大众旗下的一款汽车。

28. journal: 日记。

29. company: 陪伴，伴随。

（来源：英语学习杂志）